You have no idea how many times I’ve sat at this keyboard with the idea of writing a post, but nothing comes.  I start paragraph after paragraph, but it’s disconnected and dull, putting even me to sleep. Where did my writer go? 

I wanted to write about the new rooster that appeared outside my kitchen window today. I named him Big Red and really like him, but so what?  

I could write about the joy grandchildren bring in allowing us to revert to childhood as we take them sledding, roller skating and swimming. Yeah, okay. Yawn.

What about Poekoelan, Isabella’s martial art? I love watching her train, moving her body as tiger, crane, snake and monkey, her sweet willowy figure learning to take an attacker down, kick and eye gouge. The studio on Hawthorne Street is world class and is masterfully teaching Portland’s children to protect and defend themselves. There are 11 year olds walking the streets who are registered as lethal weapons. How I would have loved that. “Hello, this is my daughter Karen. She’s a lethal weapon.” Wish I’d known how to kick butt as a kid.

We’re leaving for Mexico February third for a mother, daughter, granddaughter trip, sleeping in cabanas on the beach in Zihuatanejo. That could be fun, as long as I don’t eat  the food, drink the water or breathe the air. I did notice mosquito nets around our beds and don’t imagine they were draped inside to look romantic. But I can’t write about that yet, it hasn’t happened.

The chicken soup on the stove is nearly done and it tastes a lot like my efforts to write lately. Not so good. A suite for solo cello fills the living room. It’s in D major, by Bach. That transcends all things stuck. I guess I’ll just listen to it and forget about writing until I actually have something to say. Sorry folks.